The Slaughtered Lamb
by Pizza-Knives-Shinigamieyes
Summary: The human named Mason goes into an old bar in the Mage Quarter of Stormwind City.  After all, the ale there is to die for...literally.


(a/n) I had no idea there was even Fan Fiction for Warcraft until three days ago. So since I play it, I decided to write for it. By the way, for those of you that don t know, there really is a tavern in the Mage Quarter of Stormwind City called the Slaughtered Lamb. Go there, and you ll understand how I came up with this. I m so nerdy :P Oh yeah, don t forget to review please! (criticism is welcomed but no flames please!)

And NO I DON T own Warcraft. If I did, no one would play it...trust me.

The Slaughtered Lamb

Stormwind City is a rather busy city. People of all races and classes always running errands as fast as possible. They have monsters to kill, duels to win, and battle grounds to conquer.

But for the few with a little extra time, a trip to the tavern is always welcomed. And Stormwind City is famous for its ale, imported from all over Azeroth.

Deep in the heart of the Mage Quarter lies a building known of by only a select few. It is called the Slaughtered Lamb. Unlike the Golden Keg or the Pig and Whistle Tavern, of which are almost always filled to costumer capacity, the Slaughtered Lamb is nearly deserted.

A lone bartender with an eye patch stands behind the counter whistling a haunting tune. He uses a dampened rag to shine an already spotless glass.

The crackling of a fire, and the whispers of hidden voices can be heard through the old, hollow walls. An occasional rat scuttles across the floor, and spider webs dangle above the wooden chairs. The tables are splintering from old age, and the tavern itself smells of aged beer and mildew. It gives off a lonely feeling, as if the old, weathered, man behind the counter has been here all by himself for more than a lifetime.

This is no ordinary bar.

A young male human with hair the color of a raven's feathers, walks through the serenity of the Mage Quarter. His face is covered in cuts, and he limps slightly. He appears as though he has returned from a long battle.

He walks the cobblestone pathway that leads to an old building. A rickety, wooden sign hangs from the roof. The Slaughtered Lamb is carved messily into the aging wood. The man opens the door, and the hinges groan in protest.

As he enters the ancient tavern, a greasy-haired old man with an eye patch over his left eye looks up from the counter and greets the young man.

"Greetings traveler. What brings a busy looking creature like yourself to my fine establishment this afternoon?" He asks in a raspy voice.

"I've been in search of a drink. Your bar was the first I came across." The other answers.

"How curious...almost no one comes here on their own," The bartender's visible eye twitches the slightest bit. "So what can I get for you today?" He continues.

"I'll have some of your finest ale please, sir." The raven haired man says. He places a few silver coins on the counter; the bartender snatches them up in his boney fingers and places them into a small brown bag.

"Sit where you want, and I'll get your drink."  
>"Thanks," The young man spots an empty table next to were the only other costumer sits. He makes himself comfortable as he waits for his drink.<p>

The man at the other table doesn't have a drink. He just sits there, all alone. He appears to be trembling a little. Is he scared, or is he just physically unstable?

"Hey there," he says to the younger man.

"Hello," he answers, a little frightened by the shaking man. His clothes are in tatters and a few of his teeth are absent.

"You sure look like a strong young fellow. But be careful, them spiders keep crawling up the well. Theys go after the sheeps, but them sheeps ain t for eatin'" The rugged man says, looking around the room with obvious paranoia. "What do they call you son?" He continues.

"I am Mason, and you?" The young man says after hesitating. He figured that the old man was just crazy, or horribly confused.

"Oh, who am I? That don't matter to nobody," The rugged man says back, smiling a smile that would make children pee their pants with fear.

The man called Mason decided that if he just ignored the man, he would stop talking.

About five minutes later, the old man finally shut up after mumbling something about spiders and wells and sheep. The bartender walks over to Mason and hands him a bubbling mug.

"Thanks," Mason says, before taking a swig of his ale. "Oh would you happen to have a bathroom in this bar?" He asks the bartender.

"Yes sir, around that curtain and down the stairs." He answers pointing towards the back of the room. Mason takes another sip of his drink before heading in the direction of the bathroom.

The stairs twist into a tight spiral; the ceiling is so low that Mason has to avoid hitting his head. After walking down the seemingly never ending stairs for a few minutes, Mason begins to hear a quiet muffled sound. It sounds as though it were coming from inside the walls.

Getting farther and farther down, the strange noise sounds like a voice. Mason stops walking and listens intently. He only catches a few words: On his way...haven't eaten in ages...

Mason starts walking again as he has no idea what the hidden voice was talking about, and he figures it doesn't matter anyway. Lost in his thoughts, he almost doesn't notice when the ceiling gets higher, and the narrow, wooden stairs open up into a spacious stone room. There are cut outs into the walls and a box lays open in the corner. Mason wonders to himself if this is some sort of storage room.

At least, he thought that until he realized the box was a coffin, and the room was a poorly lit crypt. Trying to process this in his brain so it made sense, Mason did not ever notice the bartender approaching him from behind. He didn't notice that the bartender's arms were outstretched and aimed for his throat. He didn't notice he was trapped until it was too late.

A crow sits atop the roof of the old Slaughtered Lamb, but it is startled by a sudden scream coming from inside the building. It ruffles its feathers, squawks, and flies off.

No one knows whatever happened to the human with raven colored hair, called Mason. But one thing's for sure, the ale at the Slaughtered Lamb is simply to die for.

(a/n) So how was it? Let me know and review please! Thank you! 


End file.
